Canon in D
by SeverusLuciusAbraxasMalfoy
Summary: Because Music speaks a universal language.
1. Music of the night

It was just another night in the castle. All was quiet and the students slept without a care in the world, or so it seemed.

Occasionally the giggling adolescent couple were punished and sent back to the beds they should have been in, alone.

It was nights like these when sleep was evasive and the nightmares threatened to break the spirit that was already in tatters.

She knew these floors, these walls, this night. The castle made sounds and it was something she was used to by now. Her footsteps were quiet, even though there was no Mrs. Norris to fear.

Habit, she supposed.

After over a year of tip toeing around, one was bound to have light feet.

She hummed a distant tune that was stuck in her head for days now, quietly and almost too soft to hear.

And then she realised that it was not in her mind, the sound, and this was a corridor she hadn't seen before.

If it was before, she would have stiffened, disillusioned herself and worried what she had gotten herself into this time.

If it was before.

Now she didn't care. What more could happen to her? A bitter smile twisted her lips into something vaguely disturbing.

She did, of course, silence her feet, taking her shoes off. She'd left her wand under her pillow. She hadn't needed it often now.

Wincing slightly at the chill in her now stocking-clad feet, she walked toward the sound.

It was, she determined, a lone violin, playing out a happy tune with such sorrow, it seemed fit for the night, a haunting melody.

Canon in D.

If she was surprised at who was playing it, she didn't show it.

It was apt somehow. It suited him well.

Eyes closed, she sank to the floor in the alcove she chose to hide herself in. Why was she hiding? No answer came through, so she hid anyway.

The notes wafted to her, quiet and beautiful, bringing tears to her eyes. She had always loved this one. Her father used to listen to it on the CD player over and over again.

She had walked down the aisle to this music.

A happy memory it was. She replayed it in her mind now.

He had waited at the altar; blue eyes alight with pride and joy, mirroring her own. He had blushed a little, adding colour to his freckled face and so handsome he had been.

It had been the happiest day of her life.

A single tear escaped her eyes, at the thought, and she felt the warm liquid fall on her skin, in such contrast to the chilled air, making her shiver.

And suddenly she realised that it was too quiet. The music had stopped. Perhaps it was time to leave.

She rose, silent as the night itself, and was about to go when she looked up and froze.

There, he sat, violin resting by the stone, watching her through her reflection in the window panes.

There was no sneer on his face, no hate in his eyes and no blood staining his robes; and yet, he terrified her just the same.

"Are you going to hide there all night?" There was no malice in the question. It was just a simple question.

"No."

They said nothing for a minute. She realised that there were alone in the corridor. Literally.

"There are no other?"

"Not here," he said, "my one request granted."

She nodded. Strangely, she understood. The need to be alone was overwhelming most of the time. Wandering the castle at night would make it somehow almost like being alone.

She opened her mouth to say something when she realised this time, she was truly alone. He was gone.

Disappointed, she turned, put on her shoes, and walked back to her quarters. Dawn would be nigh in an hour and the castle would begin buzzing at first light.

Curiosity, however, brought her back to stand in front of the place he had sat, and her fingers traced the spot.

It would not serve her to be maudlin, she thought, and found her way back to her living room, where she could pretend to read till it was an hour respectable enough to ask for breakfast.

She sighed, picking up an old tome and lighting the fire.

Another day, another dawn.


	2. Day after Day

The day was a blur, as were most of them. She went through all of them on autopilot.

She understood that if she thought about it, it would all come crashing down on her.

So she smiled, and she taught and she walked around like nothing was wrong. She never allowed herself to linger on the occasional concerned looks thrown her way. She couldn't stand to see their pity.

"Stop," she told herself, and the mirror yelped at the harshness of her tone.

She could imagine how Harry felt when his mind was being invaded.

Her feet carried her through the corridors, before she realised she was trying to find the same one as last night. It was nearly dawn, and she still hadn't found it.

Perhaps it was all a hallucination of her exhausted self?

Shaking her head lightly, she turned and walked, wondering what she could use as a test subject for the transfiguration class.

It was odd, she understood, she should have reached the stairs at this point; she frowned. She couldn't have lost her way, could she?

Apparently she was supposed to be not trying to find the corridor to actually find it.

Magic worked in mysterious ways.

He wasn't there, and after a few minutes, she decided that she really needed to bring her faculties under control.

"Back again, I see," said in resignation and neutral tone.

"Yes."

He did nothing but stare at her, and she knew that it was no use trying to hide it. It was too obvious, for a man of his intelligence. But she knew he would say nothing.

He saw the empty eyes, he saw the circles under them, he noticed the faint tremor in her hands, and her unkempt appearance; and yet, he said nothing.

There was nothing to tell.

"You aren't playing today?"

"I have no intension, not tonight."

"Why has the castle let me come here?"

"The castle knows you, and the castle certainly knows what one is in need of."

"Ergo, the Room of Requirement."

"Indeed."

"It's nearly time for breakfast."

"Very well," he rose to leave, but he stopped at her voice.

"But I have no class till after lunch."

He nodded once, and took his seat. She followed suit and sat across him on the floor. His face looked much younger, and she wanted to feel it.

"Why are you here?" His question startled her, and she blinked before she answered.

"I'm not sure."

A raised eyebrow was his response.

She felt like the right fool, but he was still here, and she knew he didn't suffer fools.

"How many nights have you wandered these halls?"

"Too many to count," she smiled sadly.

"I see," he stood up and Hermione was a bit disappointed that he'd leave but he only walked around the stone and pulled something out.

Her heart felt a little lighter when she recognised the casing.

He sat back down, and caressed the leather lovingly. She felt too awkward, like she was interrupting a private moment, so her tongue sealed itself behind her teeth.

"Aren't you going to dissect my actions?"

"No."

She could have sworn she saw a small smile.

After a moment, he said, "It was a gift from Minerva. A Stradivarius," he handled the violin with precision and care.

"Please," she requested him and he started to play.

She didn't know how long she sat there, listening, or when she had started to cry, but he played and she listened.

She watched in fascination as he swung the bow with expert moves and his fingers glided over the strings. How his face dissolved into an expression of pure concentration and joy when he played. It was as if he had forgotten she was there.

She watched the errant strands of his hair fly as he moved. For a man who served once as the epitome of hate, the music within him was truly beautiful.

A maestro.

At length he stopped and she wanted to cry out as if the warmth had left with the music. Notes lingered in her mind and the air was lighter for it.

He carefully put the instrument back into the case and stored it behind the stone. She noted for the first time that there was a lake in the distance and ...

"Hogwarts?"

"Indeed."

"Why?"

He looked like he wanted to snap something at her, but in the end he relented and sighed.

"It was... it is... sanctuary."

She nodded in understanding, it still is for her.

"Why do you come here?"

"Because there is hardly another place I can go."

"Aren't you worried that someone might steal it?" she pointed in the direction he had stored the violin.

"What do you think?"

"I think you would hunt them down and make their lives or the lack of it, more miserable than it possibly was?"

"Five points to your house."

She mock glared him and he only showed the amusement in his eyes, "pity, they don't count for teachers."

He crossed his arms and looked smug.

"I should go." She rose reluctantly.

"Very well," he rose to leave.

"May I... " she gestured between them, and he pinched the bridge of his nose, in a show of exaggerated resignation.

"Disrupt my peace if you must," he glared at her, but she only smiled in return. His tone lacked the bite.

"Thank you, " she said quietly, to which he inclined his head and left.

She nervously traced the spot he had sat at, and left to face the rest of the day.

In all these days, she had never felt the want to do anything like she felt the desire to come back here.

In all these days, for once she looked forward to the night, rather than think of it as a burden.

She cracked the first real smile in many months.


	3. One night, one song

Each night he played, and each night they spoke a little more. It was surreal that she was having conversations of a personal nature with her old Potions' master as if he hadn't insulted, snapped and sneered at them for a grand total of six years.

But then, she had seen him gasping for breath, seen the blood pouring out of his wounds, seen his most precious memories, and she had seen the exact moment the light had left his eyes.

It somehow changed everything.

She had seen so much blood, so many empty eyes, and now the emptiness was in her own. Sometimes she wondered if the life in her drained away with the last time she saw death.

She didn't need to go down that lane again.

She listened to the water drip from the faucet. The castle was going to be slumbering in a little while.

Walking the corridors to her usual haunt, she tried to recall the last time she had slept. Ah, yes, that Saturday morning she fell blissfully unconscious onto the thick rug and woke up in the infirmary.

Poppy had insisted that she take sleeping aids twice a week atleast. She resisted. She knew that stuff was addictive. Imagine the students being taught by a crack addict?

"Hello," she greeted him, far too cheerfully, and he frowned in suspicion.

"What are you on?"

"What? I'm not on anything!" she said indignantly. Here she was, eager to see him and he was being such a prat.

It was only pepper-up she'd been taking.

"Pepper-up? Yes, yes. I'm familiar with the effects of that one."

"You are?"

"I didn't manage to serve two masters and teach students, on love and fresh air," he snorted.

She giggled, a tad hysterically. She imagined him being wooed by Dumbledore or Voldemort. It was too funny.

She burst out laughing.

"Think it's funny do you?" he sneered, and she only laughed harder. She didn't notice the grin that graced his face and disappeared too quickly.

When she finally could look at him without dissolving into hysterics again, she caught her sides and plopped on the floor with all the grace of a two year old.

He saw that her face was suffused with a healthy colour rather than the usual death-warmed-over hue.

"How many nights do you want to continue this?"

She looked confused, "Continue what?"

"This," he gestured between them, "it's not healthy."

"You're the one to talk!" she snapped, "Man-who-lived-on-Pepper-Up!"

He gaped, and then he guffawed for a good three seconds. It was her turn to smile. He looked so much younger when he laughed. She realised that this was the first time she had ever seen heard the near-laugh that he had graced her with.

"As long as it takes," she answered belatedly.

"For what?"

"For me to understand you."

He stood up and glared at her, all the amusement gone from his manner, "then you will stay here for eternity! How do you presume to think that you ever will?!"

"I will try," she said stubbornly, "you treated us like the dirt on your boots up until the moment you kicked the bucket, and now you are concerned about my health! That's the fastest turnover I've ever seen. Of course I'm going to try and understand you!"

"You want to know why?" his voice had gone cold, "I'm dead. And you're not far from the looks of it. In fact you look like you rise from the grave each night. There's not a lot to hold on to when you are trapped in a world of windows some too small to stand and others too large to enjoy."

She had gone quiet, and he continued, "When you die," he closed his eyes and remembered, "it's like you finally get to laugh in the face of all suffering because it's over. It's finally over."

She was looking too peaceful to be normal. "What else do you want to know? Haven't you had enough?"

She shook her head and refused to say anything. Her hands fisted at her sides, and she wondered how this went from joking to dead-serious in five seconds flat. That was how it was with him. Hot and cold, sweet and sour.

A bitter sweet symphony.

She suddenly had an idea. "Wait! I have a request for you."

"Ordering me around already?"

"It's not an order. I'd like you to hear this piece and see if you can play it, please?" she put on a best puppy-dog expression, (her mind screamed "Bizarre!") and received a slight huff and frown from him.

"Accio CD-player!"

What in Merlin's name? He wondered, seeing a small discus type object sailing toward her.

"George charmed this to work without batteries for me," she was like a child in a candy store, "shall I?"

He nodded, more out of curiosity than anything else, and she fumbled with some buttons till she found the right thing, or so he presumed, with the look she had.

Strains of a song came through and the corridor echoed with them. When it was over, he was slightly appalled at the amount of banging that was there, but he was interested; not that he'd tell her as much, ever.

"So? What do you think?"

"I think, silly girl, you should be in bed right now."

That did it. He knew she hated it when he called her silly girl or child or anything else. She just bit out a "Fine. Thanks. Good night," although the last sounded more like a curse. He chuckled under his breath at her stomping away.

He remembered the song: "Bittersweet symphony," She had told him it was called.

He scratched his chin thoughtfully and walked back to his other portrait.


	4. For want of a touch

She didn't turn up the night after, nor the next.

He brushed off the odd fluttering as nothing. He certainly didn't mind having his peace back.

He stared at the moon through the window and picked up his violin. He would play something he wanted to play this night.

But his heart was not in it. He understood that when what he started was one thing and what it turned into was once again, the melancholic version of the wedding tune.

With a slight growl he re-packed the instrument and rose to leave. He didn't feel the peace he had associated this corridor with. He cursed her for taking the one precious thing from him.

She did turn up the night after that, and he told himself that he was not waiting for her to come. He didn't say two words to her.

"I was..." she started to speak, but he cut her off.

"I have no desire nor the slightest inclination to hear what was or is."

He did feel a little pang of guilt at the hurt in her eyes. He crushed it quickly enough.

"Sorry."

"Indeed."

She indicated to the discus thing. "May I?"

"What makes you think it might interest me in the slightest? I doubt I have played that other tune yet, " her face fell, "in fact I have forgotten it."

"Well," she said sadly, "I thought I found a piano piece that might have caught your attention, since you love music, is all..."

His scowl didn't lessen, although he did sit down and cross his arms. She took it as a good sign.

She played it aloud, and he didn't want to admit it that yes, it was an excellent piece. He didn't want to admit that it took him back to the times he was, for however short a while, happy. He remembered his mother's smile and her enthusiasm at his little gifts.

He had been a child, so very long ago.

He said nothing when it ended, because he didn't realise it had.

He said nothing of her curious look at his loss for words. He said nothing of the glimmer of joy when he lifted his beloved Stradivarius out of its case. He said nothing when he felt such a profound sense of peace when the first notes fell from the strings.

A bittersweet symphony.

He didn't stop to see her surprise, he didn't stop to see her cry, he didn't stop when he felt the slight pressure of her fingers.

He stopped when it was finished. And yet he didn't open his eyes.

"Please," she whispered, and there was pleading in her tone. He opened his own to stare into eyes the colour of cinnamon, the colour of chocolate, and all the things he liked.

There were no tears this time. She was happy, he could tell.

"Thank you," he nodded once and wished he could feel again. Her fingers traced the line of his face, his jaw, his chin, and she stopped to place her hand over his heart.

He would have given anything to feel the warmth of that touch, and not just the sensation. He closed his eyes and imagined.

A minute later, the pressure was gone, and she stood back. Her face etched with an unknown expression. He felt a fool. A wanton fool for hoping.

For letting himself feel.

"Good Night," he said and left as fast as he could. The hurt and shock on her face did nothing to ease his own, and he fled. He fled because he was not sure he could trust his own voice.

He fled because he was terrified. He fled because he knew that torturing himself again over something he couldn't have was too much, even for his own masochism.

He fled because he realised he cared.

He didn't go back to the corridor after that.


	5. Peace

His duty as former headmaster was to visit his portrait during the hours of the day, and provide help to the one in the chair. It was his bound duty to do so.

So even in death there was duty.

He sat in the chair all day long, listening to the snores and unnecessary, mostly baseless gossip between the other portraits.

His own was next to the twinkling old codger and he sniped and snapped and eventually fell quiet.

Pretending to be asleep was quite a good form of escape.

Another form of escape was to visit the library and pick a good tome to read. No matter that his trips to the library came when there was a voice at the door that sounded exactly like hers. No matter that he ignored the Headmistress when she told him she had once again inquired after him.

He most definitely ignored the worrying frown that Dumbledore and Minerva threw his way.

And then once there was a commotion. He heard some words like "infirmary" and "no hope" and he worried less about the words themselves, over the constant absence of one twinkling dingbat.

And then he knew.

"Hello."

He was jerked out of his reverie by the lakeside by her voice, but there was no one there. Hmmph.

He was hallucinating he supposed.

He was sure of it when he saw her approach him from beyond. He was doubtful hallucination was possibly by a portrait, but he only stared.

She must have realised something was off because the next moment, he felt the warmth of her touch, and he gasped.

"I'm no illusion," she told him as she traced the lines of his face.

"How?" He was not sure whether to feel infuriated that she was here, sad that she was no longer alive, or happy that she was here. Not to mention the guilt that he might have been a cause.

"Transfiguration spell gone awry."

He stared in disbelief, and she soothed away the frown with her angelic fingers.

"I..." she hesitated, "lost concentration because of..."

Oh.

"I have yet another burden on my conscience."

"What? No! It wasn't your fault, was it?"

"Was it?"

She stared into his eyes and told him, "No. It was how it was. I was not sleeping, I was ill."

"I should have not..."

She placed her fingers on his lips, "Hush. It was not yours, it was mine, but..." she smiled at him.

"I'm glad," she continued tracing lines, "I can feel you."

"And I, you."

He wondered if he should laugh at the irony. Death brought him her.

"You were right," she whispered, and he could not stop from wrapping his arms about her.

"About what?"

"About how death brought you peace. It brought me mine."

He stared into her eyes and wondered if he was truly hallucinating.

No, he decided, when he felt her lips on his own, if he was, then this was one hallucination he didn't want to end.


End file.
